I was speaking to someone at work on Friday. She came in to give me money she owed me that I completely forgot about because I had picked up a danish for her while on a coffee run.

I told her it wasn’t necessary and she said she was always the child who returned money she borrowed from her parents. I joked that I was always the child who would find money and give it to my parents.

We were both the youngest siblings. We both have older siblings who let’s just say weren’t the stereotype of the “mature” one.

But this post isn’t about my sibling (maybe another day). This is about me. Growing up in that shadow. Not a shadow of Marcia Marcia Marcia perfection. A shadow which stressed my parents out daily.

I was told I was always “a little adult”. People would comment on how well behaved I was. I was quiet. I was respectful. I was that annoying kid who stressed so much about grades when I almost always got an A (fuck you math and science).

There are a lot of things I didn’t do. I’m not saying I wish I did them. I’m saying I wish that I had more of a choice. I wish that I wasn’t always so scared of adding stress that I just never wanted to be not so adult. I wish that I wasn’t the one whose mom would tell her things that kids shouldn’t know or have to process.

I wish I had felt some freedom.

There are things I didn’t do. I’m not saying I wish I did them. I’m saying I wish the thought had crossed my mind.

Because I wasn’t a “little adult”. I was a “too mature child.”

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